


How Not to Be Bored

by nanda (nandamai)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Humor, Second Person, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-08
Updated: 2003-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nandamai/pseuds/nanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scent is evocative. Teal’c is evil. Sam is “bored.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Not to Be Bored

It's official: you hate this planet. Hate it, hate it, hate it.

You feel guilty about hating it, though. And that kinda sucks.

It's a nice planet. Temperate. Blue and green in all the right places. Pets that look like big gray sheep on leashes. Friendly people. Just -- nothing to do.

Nothing. To. Do. And another thing, but you're trying not to think about that.

You hide your yawn but know it's useless. You know this because Teal'c has that serene smile on his face that translates from Jaffa to human as "smirk." You also know that he's bored, too, though he'd never admit it.

You fight the urge to check your watch.

Then you fight the urge to check the academic building where Daniel has a weekly appointment with a local professor; they're working to translate the script humans here used under the Goa'uld several thousand years ago.

Every. Week. Failing a galactic apocalypse, of course. Thank God it's only for a few hours.

For Daniel -- and for Lt. Callan, who's been Daniel's bright, bubbly shadow since she and her "prodigious natural gift for new language acquisition" joined the SGC five months ago -- it's a dream job. Daniel nearly hyperventilated when he first saw the strange curls and dots that make up the mystery writing system.

For you, and for Teal'c, it's just boring. And the fact that you think a mission is boring can only mean that he -- the other he, the one who's not here, the one who's probably lounging around in your living room right about now and drinking out of your favorite coffee mug -- is rubbing off on you. (Oooh, rubbing -- no. Bad thought.)

"Perhaps if you relax and enjoy the sunlight the time will pass more quickly, Samantha Carter," Teal'c says with that Jaffa-serene non-smirk. When you ignore him he adds, "Perhaps the biochemists of Stargate Command would appreciate a sample of the incense the Ancardans call _mrita_. You might wish to ask them."

He knows. Damn him. You know he knows.

"Funny, Teal'c."

"I am merely trying to be of assistance."

"Sure you are."

"Perhaps O'Neill would appreciate a sample?"

"Teal'c?"

"Yes, Samantha Carter?"

"Shut up."

Okay, maybe Teal'c is not quite as bored as you are. He can't be, because he's enjoying this way too much.

You kick at the dirt and try not to smell the incense that permeates every cubic inch of this planet, as far as you can tell. It's part of their religion (according to Daniel) but it's sure as hell not making you feel holy. The worst thing is that you _know_ "O'Neill" would appreciate a sample of the stuff. He'd also probably laugh his ass off. And he'd laugh even harder if he knew what it was doing to you today. And then you'd have to kick his ass, which would be a problem because, really, there are much nicer things you could be doing with it.

Preferably now. Right. Now.

Most weeks the incense that smells way too much like his cologne just makes you homesick. Most weeks Teal'c is not-so-subtly smirking because he knows you'd rather be at home staring into your former CO's eyes. Most weeks you're embarrassed just because your Jaffa friend knows about your huge sappy streak.

Today, though ... today it's making you want something much different. Something a lot sweatier, for starters. Oh yeah. Nice and sweaty. And hot. And this planet is very, very bad.

And it's Teal'c's ass you really ought to kick, just for good measure.

And the next time Daniel's little consultancy gig falls on this particular day of the month, you are so calling in sick. Or possibly faking a galactic apocalypse.

When Daniel and Callan finally emerge -- 45 minutes early -- it's all you can do not to run to the gate. "Thank God," you say, though you try not to, while they exchange farewells with Professor Shri.

"It appears that 'today is your lucky day,' as the Tau'ri say, Samantha Carter."

"Teal'c? Shut up."

***

You thank all non-snakey gods that it was only a one-day mission. You know where he'll be because you saw him this morning. Ate breakfast with him this morning. Had fast, hot, sweaty sex with him this morning. And you plan to have more of it very, very soon -- possibly with less emphasis on the "fast."

Though maybe you hadn't planned for him to be covered in sweat before you even get out of your car. Well, you're only guessing about the sweat, but you're pretty sure about the dirt -- he's knee-deep in a hole in your front lawn, wielding a dangerous-looking shovel.

He looks up at you in surprise and climbs out, favoring his bad knee just a little. Then, wearing a thankfully non-Jaffa smirk, he leans on the shovel and watches you walk towards him.

"You're home early."

"You're filthy."

"Big root system. Huge."

"It's kinda hot."

The smirk turns into a grin and he winks at you, the bastard. "Good mission?"

"Don't want to talk about it."

"Wanna take a shower?"

"Later. Come inside."

He drops the shovel on the grass and bounces on his toes. "Yes, ma'am."

In your front hall you back up against the door, pulling him to you. He _is_ filthy and it's definitely hot: baseball cap on backwards, beaten up USAF t-shirt with hand-shaped dirt smudges on it, jeans you picked out for him that hang just right on his hips, and old work boots. Dirt on his face, as the smirk moves closer to you, dirt on the arms that lean against the door on either side of you. Erotically musky and, yes, a hint of that damn cologne under the very male scent. And teeth that taste like your wintergreen-baking soda toothpaste.

You jerk the wet t-shirt over his head, but that's as far as you get before he takes control. Your clothes are gone in a few seconds and oh God, you're rubbing against him like you're in heat (which you sort of are). It's humiliating but it's really, really hot and damn him, he's still smirking.

He turns you roughly, guides you to bend over and brace yourself against the door. The way you're moaning should also be humiliating, but oh, oh, you can hear him unbutton his fly (you love those jeans) and you feel his hand between your legs (you've been ready for him for hours). His grunt is half laugh, half arousal; he knows your body way too well and you're way too grateful for it.

You try to arch your back and bring your hips closer to his but he holds you still and says, "Move and I'll stop."

"Oh _God_."

"You can talk all you want."

"Oh God."

And then he's driving into you, hard, and you hear yourself scream.

"Miss me, did you?" he asks as he starts pumping.

"Shut up and fuck me." You only talk dirty when you're desperate. He knows that, too.

He laughs but you're beyond caring, your elbows digging into the door, your forehead knocking against it with each thrust. His jeans are rough on your thighs.

And then he's gone. He's pulled all the way out of you. "You bastard," you breathe. He taunts you with just the head of his cock and pulls away again. Don't move, you tell yourself, don't move don't move. Because you know he meant it.

"Stop teasing," you beg.

He kisses the top of your spine, says "Just testing how well you follow directions," and slides back in.

Oh God. Oh oh oh. So good, so good. So deep. You want so badly to touch yourself but you're not supposed to move. So you surrender, knowing that when he does make you come it'll be unexpected and therefore fantastic. He does, almost as soon as his greedy fingers touch your greedy clit, and it is. Oh, God, yesyesyesyesyes.

You slide to the floor, after, and he follows, jeans still bunched around his hips and baseball cap still on backwards. You pull it off and settle his head on your stomach, facing you over your breasts. Now you're both filthy and hot and sweaty, and yeah. So, so good. That feeling inside where he just was -- so good.

"You need to spend more time on that planet," he says, giving his eyebrows a workout while he plays with one of your nipples.

"Oh, please, no."

"Why? You're always very happy to see me when you get back from Danny's language lessons. Not usually quite this happy to see me, but ..."

"I was pretty happy to see you this morning, too, if you recall."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Not on your life. But I might be convinced to make you happy again in the shower."

The last time you saw him move that fast he had a P-90 in his hands and two fully functional knees.

And you are definitely not bored anymore.


End file.
